By the time we returned to Blackmoore, it was time to dress for dinner. And dinner was a grand affair with all forty guests in the grand dining room. I was seated next to Herr Spohr, far down the table from Henry and Sylvia. I did not mind, though, as I had something important to ask of him.
“Herr Spohr, I believe we had some sort of misunderstanding last night. When you took my music away from me.”
I watched him chew a piece of roasted duck. He chewed it for what seemed a long time while I awaited his response. I had to have misunderstood his intentions last night. Gentlemen did not walk around confiscating the belongings of young ladies. His behavior was so highly irregular. Surely there was some explanation for it.
He finally swallowed, looked at me briefly, and shook his head. “No. Mozart is not good for you.”
“But it belongs to me. You cannot just take something that belongs to someone else.”
He speared another piece of duck. “It is for your own good, meine kleine Vogel. Trust me.”
At a loss, I shook my head and would have felt inclined to resent his heavy-handed attitude, were it not for the rather charming combination of his wild hair and his German accent and the term he called me. Little bird. And I did feel rather in awe of him—a real composer. A professional musician. I respected him, despite his unorthodox methods of separating young musicians from their musical geniuses.
“Do you know Faust, Miss Worthington?”
I sat up straight. “What?”
“Faust.” He regarded me steadily, his eyes a deep blue.
My heart lurched in my chest. My gaze darted across the room, to where Henry sat at the head of the table with Miss St.Claire at his right hand. His gaze was down, his dark hair shone in the candlelight, and he occupied that seat of authority with a casual grace that could not be taught, only earned. I looked away and tried not to think of the morning I had first heard of Faust. I nodded. “Yes. A little.”
“What do you know?” Herr Spohr had set down his fork and was regarding me with the unwavering attention of a tutor for his pupil.
“Faust was a brilliant man who yearned for more than he already had. He struck a bargain with the devil—with Mephistopheles. He bargained away his soul in exchange for greater wisdom, greater favors, greater accomplishments.”
“And in the end?” Herr Spohr prompted.
I swallowed. “In the end, he lost his soul.”
Herr Spohr nodded, his hair flopping with the movement. “Yes, Fräulein. That is good. You know the important things. The ambition. The restlessness. The greed. The great struggle for more.” He rubbed a hand over the top of his head. “I wrote an opera about him, you know. About Faust.” He picked up his fork and speared another piece of meat. I watched him, waiting for more, as he chewed thoroughly, then picked up his drink and took a long swallow.
“But what does Faust have to do with Mozart?” I finally asked, impatient.
He shook his head. “No, no. Faust has nothing to do with Mozart.” His gaze settled on me, weighted with significance. “Just as you have nothing to do with Mozart.”
He turned back to his dinner, clearly dismissing me, and I was left with nothing but confusion.
The crowd of guests was infuriating. I doubted I would ever have a chance to find Henry alone with all of these guests around. After dinner we all sat in the drawing room and enjoyed a short recital by Herr and Frau Spohr, who played a violin and harp duet—an original composition by Herr Spohr. After the music, Mr. Brandon found me and asked me to be his partner for a game of whist with Sylvia and his father. My mind was not on the game, though. I was only thinking of how I needed to make my escape to India, and how I needed to speak to Henry, and how every time I looked for him he was occupied with one guest or another. Half the time Miss St.Claire was at his side. And more than once I caught Mrs. Delafield staring at me in a warning way. As if I was going to repeat my mistakes of the night before, when I had tried to flirt. I felt scrutinized, and unhappy, and frustrated. And then I could not find Henry at all, and my plan to get his help seemed doomed to fail before it even began, and I could not bear to stay in that drawing room one minute longer.
Disappointment accompanied me up the stairs when all the guests dispersed for the night. I had spent the whole day trying for one simple thing—a chance to speak with Henry alone. Now it was nighttime, and another day here had passed without advancing my plot of earning my trip to India.
Alice was waiting for me in my room, but I was not ready to go to bed. I had to accomplish something this day. I asked her, “If one wished to go outside at night, without being seen, how might one accomplish that?”
A startled look passed over her face. “You are not thinking of going outside, miss. Not at night.”
She said it like a statement rather than a question. “Perhaps I am thinking of it. Why should I not?”
A hint of fear shadowed her eyes. “Ah, no, miss, you mustn’t. Not a soul ventures out at night in these parts. Everyone knows to beware of Linger’s Ghost.” She looked at me more closely. “You must have heard of Linger’s Ghost, miss.”
I shook my head. I did not believe in ghost stories, and I thought Alice would have grown out of them by now as well.
“He travels the moors on horseback at night, miss, especially on the nights of a full moon. If you see him, you must hurry and hide yourself, and if you’re out on the moors, with nowhere to hide ...” She shook her head, her hand creeping to her throat. She squeezed it, as if trying to strangle the idea of a supernatural meeting on the moors at night.
A shiver ran through me, and I took a step away from her. “I do not believe in ghosts.”
Shaking a finger at me, she said in a low voice, “You needn’t believe in something for it to be real, miss.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, neither of us giving an inch. I sighed. “I only want to go down to the beach. I promised my brother a seashell that I find under the light of the moon. I have no plans to go to the moors at all.”
Her eyes widened. “The beach? At night?” Her voice cracked. She pressed her lips tightly closed and shook her head. “No. It is unwise. You shouldn’t go, miss. You should never go to the beach at night.”
I clenched my fists, feeling my frustration burn into anger. “But I want to go to the beach and find a seashell for my brother. That does not seem like too much to ask.”
“I cannot help you, miss. I am sorry.” She bent her head and stood before me in an attitude of such humility that I could not be angry with her.
I sat on my bed with a sigh of defeat. “You may go, Alice.”
“Do you not want my help undressing?”
I shook my head. “No. Thank you.”
She opened the door and slipped out of the room before I could say another word. I looked from the closed door to the closed window, feeling the stir of restlessness grow greater within me. I had to leave this room.
Chapter 15
I waited and watched the clock hands turn until ten minutes had passed since Alice left me. Then I picked up a candle, opened my door, and ventured out into the halls of Blackmoore.
It turned out that I did not need Alice’s help to slip out of the house unnoticed, although I would have appreciated it. I found a back stairway used by the servants. I was wearing a cloak and nobody saw me. Then it was just a matter of finding a window that I could open, because the doors would not do. A window was necessary for this kind of escape. The only thing I did not bargain for was the rose bushes planted directly underneath the window. A thorn scratched my hand when I jumped from the windowsill.
I shook off the sting of the scratch and crept around the corner of the house until I was facing the ocean. Drawing in a deep breath, I closed my eyes and let the sound of the waves and the chill of the air wash over me. After several moments, I felt free of the restlessness that plagued me inside and set about finding a way down to the beach.
The house was perched on a cliff overlooking the sea.
But surely there would be some way to access the beach from the estate. I was grateful for the bright moon—just a few days from being full—for lighting my way. When I found the steep stone steps leading down the face of the cliff, I did not pause. This was what adventures were about—the rush of the leap, the elation of the landing. This was what my soul needed on this night of frustration and caged dreams.
I counted two hundred seventy-six stone steps until my feet touched sand. By then my legs shook from the effort of the climb down the cliff, and I waited a moment to catch my breath and really take in the scene before me.
The moon shone a silver ribbon across the water. A cold wind blew, and I wrapped my cloak more tightly around myself. I looked to the right and the left, seeing the lights of Robin Hood’s Bay probably a mile away. I wondered what Alice had against going to the beach at night and why she thought it was something she had to warn me against. I walked toward the water and leaned down to touch it. It was frigid and foaming and curling up on the sand. I dragged my fingers through the wet sand until I had a handful of small shells. Closing my fingers, I dipped my hand in the water, shaking it back and forth to try to rinse off the sand. My hand was almost numb after a moment of that, and I stood and thrust the shells into the pocket of my cloak, wiping my hand off at the same time.
Then I stood with my head tipped back and regarded the moon and the stars and the ocean stretching out into forever. This very water could carry me away to India. It could carry me away from all of my troubles here. If it weren’t for that bargain with my mother, I could ...
A splashing sound caught my attention. I stepped forward, then back in alarm. Something was in the water. Right in front of me. Coming toward me, in fact. Something large enough to make those splashes. Too large to be a fish. I racked my brain for another explanation. A dolphin? A shark? What else might be coming toward me?
I thought of Alice’s fear, and I wondered for a brief moment if I had misjudged her. Perhaps there really was something dangerous in these waters. Perhaps there was something here to be truly frightened of. Perhaps ...
The something stopped splashing, and emerged directly in the path of moonlight.
Linger’s Ghost.
My heart pounded against my ribs. The pale figure moved toward me. I backed up a step, then two, and a scream filled my throat, when suddenly a strange idea occurred to me.
I stopped, peering at the figure in the moonlight, and with a nervous voice called out, “Good evening!” I felt infinitely stupid, not knowing how else to address what surely was a man in the water.
The ghost—the man—stopped moving and peered in my direction. “Kate? Is that you?”
My mouth fell open. “Henry?”
“Yes.”
He started moving again, and I stammered, “Er ... are you ... uh ... clothed?”
A pause met my question. “No,” he said with a laugh.
My face was hot. I turned my back to the water and called out, “I need to speak with you. Can you ... come out? And put some clothes on?”
I waited, my face on fire, as another low chuckle reached my ears. Then I heard soft splashing, and I imagined him walking onto the sand. Or, rather, I tried not to imagine him walking onto the sand without a stitch of clothing on. The seconds stretched on for so long I thought I would die of embarrassment. I was losing my nerve and starting to question the wisdom of my idea.
Then soft footsteps approached me from behind, and Henry’s voice said, “You can turn around now.”
I turned around, but I was not fully prepared for the sight before me. My jaw fell open before I could catch it. Henry had put on his breeches—slung low around his hips—but nothing else. The moonlight glimmered off his bare chest and shoulders, drops of water clinging to his skin. His skin was smooth and more muscled than I had ever dared to imagine. His muscles went on and on, lean and defined, and yet he stood there without any self-consciousness, as if looking like a Greek god was something that came easily to him.
“What did you need?” he asked, rubbing his hand over his wet hair.
I forced my mouth to close, and then I tried to swallow. All rational thoughts had flown from my mind, and I could not pull my eyes away from his shoulders, his chest, his ...
“Kate?”
I pulled my gaze up to his face, but that was no better, with his eyes dark as night and his lips ...
“Do you ... have a shirt?” I spied a white bundle in his hand. “Is that it? You should put it on.” I was speaking much too fast, and my voice cracked.
Henry chuckled, a low, sultry sound. “Why? Does this bother you?” He wore a wicked grin. My face flamed hotter.
“No. I only thought you looked cold. Isn’t the water cold?” I was still speaking too fast, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“Don’t worry,” he said and did not move to put his shirt on. He did, however, rest his hands on his hips, which only drew my attention to how low his breeches were sitting. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.
I pulled my attention back to his face, cursing myself silently for becoming so distracted. “I was looking for a seashell. For Oliver. But I am glad to find you here. I was hoping to speak to you. Alone.”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“I need you.”
The words struck me as sounding much too forward and leaving too much open to interpretation. I saw that Henry thought the same thing by the way his head reared back.
I hurried to fill in the space I had opened. “I need your help, rather.”
He folded his arms across his chest, but that made things worse for me, watching how the muscles in his arms bulged. I really needed to stop thinking about his muscles.
“Does anyone know you’re out here?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I sneaked out.” I expected him to smile. But he didn’t. If anything, he looked more severe than before.
He shook his head, blew out an exasperated breath. He raked a hand through his wet hair, releasing drops of water. I expected a lecture about my habit of sneaking out, but it didn’t come. Instead he said, “And what about Mr. Brandon?”
I looked at him, puzzled. I could not understand this severity, this sternness about him. No, it was more than sternness. It was anger.
“What about him?”
“What does he know?”
I was more confused than before and shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He stepped closer—so close I could smell the salt of the ocean on him. My heart quickened. The moonlight was doing all sorts of favors for Henry, casting him midnight and silver and dark and strong.
“Have you told him what you’ve told me a hundred times?” His voice was low, a thread of something running through it—anger? Or some other emotion? “Have you told him that you have no intention of marrying? Ever?”
I blinked in surprise, struggled for words, and found myself completely dumbstruck. Some strong emotion was coming off Henry in waves, and I felt struck by the impact. I stepped back from him.
“I don’t think that’s something I need to tell him.” In fact, the very thought of it struck me as completely presumptuous.
“Why not?”
I lifted my hands, at a loss. “I have done nothing to encourage his affection.”
His jaw clenched, and he shook his head, a look of reprimand in his dark eyes. “A man does not need encouragement to lose his heart.”
My heart thumped hard. I drew in a shaky breath. This was going all wrong. “I did not come out here to talk about Mr. Brandon. Let us agree to disagree on that subject, shall we?”
He pressed his lips together and looked away.
I tried to smile, tried to lighten the mood. “So ... you like to swim in the ocean. At night. By yourself.” I frowned as I looked at the waves behind him. “It seems quite dangerous. Is this a regular habit of yours when you’re here?”
A half-smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Not exactly.” He took the shirt he held, sh
ook it out, and pulled it over his head. I did not stare at the way his muscles bunched as he did so. At least, I tried very hard not to.
“So why tonight?”
Another half-smile. “I felt the need to do something daring. That is all.”
There was something between us. Secrets that we were keeping from each other. I was just as guilty of it as Henry was, and so I had nothing to say in response to his cryptic answer. But I wondered if my idea was feasible at all, considering this new strain between us.
“So, Miss Kate. What did you need from me?” His tone was lighter, more playful. His anger seemed gone—or at least hidden—and my friend Henry was back.
Hope seized me, and quickly, before I could lose my courage, I said, “I need you to propose to me.”
Chapter 16
Henry looked stunned. He stared at me, completely still, and I felt like the biggest dolt alive.
“That didn’t sound right,” I hurried to say, my face hot with embarrassment. “I made a bargain with Mama before I left. She said that if I receive and reject three proposals, she will give up hope of ever marrying me off and allow me to go to India. I don’t need you to tell me how mad this scheme was, but I was desperate when I agreed to it. I don’t know what I was thinking.” I drew in a shaky breath. “But Sylvia told me last night—she told me how stupid I was to think that three men here would propose to me.”
Something like anger flashed across Henry’s face, and he opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a hand, stopping him. “Let me finish. Last night you told me that there had to be more than one option. And then this morning I found my other option! I remembered that Mama and I had agreed to three proposals rather than three gentlemen, and you told me that if I ever needed saving, that you would ...” I swallowed and said softly, “that you would save me.”
Henry’s expression erased my newfound hope. It was stern and bleak, and there was that anger again. “You want me to propose. Three times.”
I nodded.
“You do understand the position I am in, do you not? I am here to court Miss St.Claire. To propose to her. I cannot appear to be courting you as well.”
Blackmoore Page 13
